Spanish poet (1864-1936)
Sí, sí, hay un aburrimiento inconsciente. Casi todos los hombres nos aburrimos inconscientemente. El aburrimiento es el fondo de la vida, y el aburrimiento es el que ha inventado los juegos, la distracciones, las novelas y el amor. La niebla de la vida rezuma un dulce aburrimiento, licor agridulce. Todos estos sucesos cotidianos, insignificantes; todas estas dulces conversaciones con que matamos el tiempo y alargamos la vida, ¿qué son sino dulcísimo abrurrirse? ¡ Oh Eugenia, mi Eugenia, flor de mi aburrimiento vital e inconsciente, asísteme en mis sueños, sueña en mí y conmigo!
Those who say they believe in God, and yet neither love nor fear him, do not in fact believe in Him but in those who have taught them that God exists. Those who believe that they believe in God but without any passion in their heart, any anguish of mind, without uncertainty, without doubt, without an element of despair even in their consolation, believe only in the God-idea, not in God.
And the supreme beauty is that of tragedy. The consciousness that everything passes away, that we ourselves pass away, and that everything that is ours and everything that environs us passes away, fills us with anguish, and this anguish itself reveals to us the consolation of that which does not pass away, of the eternal, of the beautiful.
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